In Memorium
by Merrick Mayfair
Summary: For as long as she could remember Sarah had returned to the village of her birth every November to remember a man who died in a field in Flanders long before she was born. And every year the old man with the haunted eyes had been there too. Because sometimes survival is a guilt too hard to bear...


_A little something for Remembrance Sunday. I have never read War Horse, only seen the film, so I hope that I haven't made any awful mistakes. Merrick x_

Every year, for as far back as she can remember, Sarah has attended the Remembrance Sunday service in the tiny Devonshire Village in which she was born. Every year she stood, with a small group of locals, at the war memorial in the churchyard, conscious of the graves of generations of her family around her, and remembers a man she has never met, but who is as real to her as any of her family. Even when she married Doug Marsden, and moved away, she makes her pilgrimage home, every November, no matter what the weather.

And every year _he_ is there too.

She doesn't know who he is, the tall distinguished looking old man, with the military bearing and the haunted grey eyes. She knows he isn't local – she doesn't see him at all for the rest of the year, but every Remembrance Sunday they meet, nod, and pass on. Every year he becomes a little more frail and tired looking. But like Sarah, he never misses a year.

Normally, at the end of the service, she loiters for coffee, and a chance to catch up on the village gossip that she may have missed out on, since she moved away. But on this particular Sunday she breaks her routine, and instead, heads for a quiet corner of the churchyard, overhung by ancient trees. This is her final stop, each year, to pay her respects. As always, the grave is well kept, although she stoops for a moment to peel away a few wet leaves which are inevitable at this time of year.

Under the crest of the Devonshire Regiment in which he served, the lettering stands out clearly.

Captain James Nichols

"Twenty Four." She murmured softly. "Such a waste." From her bag she produces a small wreath of poppies. She always brings something, fresh flowers, poppies. As the working mum of two teenage kids she doesn't have a lot of time, but every year, she spares a couple of hours to remember James Nichols.

Hearing footsteps behind her, she rose, a little startled. The old man from the service is standing a short distance away, a little uncertain. Inexplicably, Sarah is flustered by his presence.

"Who is Captain Nichols to you? I see you here every year, is it him that you come for?"

The voice is cut glass, upper crust, bespeaking old money and an expensive education, but the tone is kind enough.

"He should have been my grandfather"

" _Should_ have been?"

"He was the great love of my grandmother's life. After he was killed, after the war, she married my real grandfather. They had almost fifty years together, and all in all they were good years. He was a good man and a good husband but..."

"But she never forgot him – James I mean."

"No. She never forgot him. She came to every Remembrance Sunday Service without fail. She brought my Mum, and eventually Mum brought me."

He smiled. "I know. I think I must have watched you grow up."

Sarah smiled, and held out her hand. "Well as you've known me all my life, I'd better introduce myself. I'm Sarah – Sarah Marsden."

He shook her hand, bowing his head with an old fashioned courtesy. "Jamie Stewart"

Sarah's eyebrows shot up in recognition. "Jamie Stewart? MajorJamie Stewart?"

For a moment, real heartbreaking anguish fills his eyes, then the shutters come down hard.

"I'm sorry, I'm intruding. I'll leave you in peace." He turns away, leaning heavily on his walking stick

"It wasn't your fault you know..."

Her words stop him in his tracks.

"It was war, and men died. You had your orders, it wasn't your fault that he died."

He turns slowly back to her, and the grief and pain etched on his strongly boned face take her breath away for a moment.

"I led them. I gave the order to charge. Of the brave men I led through that cursed corn field, only a bare half dozen survived. Two of those went on to die of dysentery in a prisoner of war camp."

"Why him?" He frowned, confused by her question. "Of all the men that died, why do you come here? Is he the closest."

He laughs bitterly. "I live in Yorkshire now, so no, he is by no means the closest."

Yorkshire she thinks, is quite a journey for someone of his age. He must be well into his nineties, although he carries his age well. "Why then?"

"Because he was one of the best men I have ever known. And a friend. You lose many men in war, but some are harder to let go of than others."

"And some, you can never quite let go of?"

"That's right. He had a warmth, an integrity about him. Everyone loved James. Including your grandmother..."

Sarah carefully opened the gold locket which she wore on a slender chain around her neck. She would have turned her nose up at it in her youth, but one of the advantages of approaching forty was that she could wear what she damn well pleased. Inside were two fading sepia pictures. Major Stewart drew in a sharp breath, seeing a face that was still hauntingly familiar even after all those years. "Your grandmother?" Sarah nodded. "I don't think I ever got over it. It's something I carried around my entire life." Worn thin hands gripped hers suddenly as his eyes filled with tears. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry that he wasn't your grandfather."

Around his shoulder Sarah could see Doug, hovering by the car, looking pointedly at his watch. She clasped her hands around his, standing on tiptoe to kiss the papery cheek.

"I'm sorry, I have to go, my husband is here for me. You have nothing to be sorry for Major Stewart. I'm glad to have met you."

As she climbed into the car, she looked back at his upright figure, still standing silent by the grave of his friend.

She never saw him again.

Towards the end of the following summer, she received a letter from a solicitor in Leeds. It probably hadn't been that difficult to find her. "... _my sad duty to inform you of the death of Major Jamie Stewart_..." the letter informed her that he had left a small personal bequest, which would arrive within the next few days.

The parcel arrived two days later, a box wrapped in layers of prosaic brown paper. There was a small note accompanying it.

" _Dear Mrs Marsden, I am very sorry that I will not be able to join you at this year's Remembrance Service._

 _I hope that you will like the enclosed, which was given to me by James Nichols only days before he died._

 _Yours sincerely_

 _J Stewart_

The picture, in a handsome wooden frame which would go with nothing in her house, but which she would not change for the world, was of a tall thin faced man in his late twenties, or early thirties, with a very impressive moustache, dozing in an old fashioned arm chair.

Written in the corner was " _To JS"_ and a signature which could only be James Nichols.

 _At the going down of the sun, and in the morning_

 _We will remember them._


End file.
